“That’s all it is, nothin’ but a lotta baloney.” His voice lost its copper strength and became strained and urgent like he didn’t have much time to finish what he had to say. “Ya see, I can’t help it, can’t – don’t ya see. I was born dead. Not you. You wasn’t born dead. Ahhhh, it’s been hard...”
He started to cry. He couldn’t make the words come out right anymore; he opened and closed his mouth to talk but couldn’t sort the words into sentences anymore. He shooked his head to clear it and blinked at the Acutes:
“Ahhhh, I... tell... ya... I tell you.”
He began slumping over again, and his iron ball shrank back to a hand. He held it cupped out in front of him like he was offering something to the patients.
“I can’t help it. I was born a miscarriage. I had so many insults I died. I was born dead. I can’t help it. I’m tired. I’m give out trying. You got chances. I had so many insults I was born dead. You got it easy. I was born dead an’ life was hard. I’m tired. I’m tired out talking and standing up. I been dead fifty-five years.”
K.Kesey, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.